


Glorious Wounds

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meredith will save Orsino by destroying him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glorious Wounds

She stared down at him, taking in the shocked expression in his large, green eyes. He had imagined himself untouchable, even from the Maker himself. But here they were. Him on his knees, two pairs of armored hands gripping his narrow shoulders, forcing him down and she… She stood triumphantly before him. The Maker is good, the Maker is righteous. She could hear the sisters from the Chantry singing, their voices rising up all the way across the harbor, like angels heralding her victory. Meredith fingered her lyrium sword as the singing swelled all around her.

“Hear, Almighty Maker, the prayers of your people…” Meredith whispered. “Of the girl acting according to the works which you had spoken of to her.” She reached out and touched the mage, tracing her finger across his broken lip and bruised cheek, up to his hairline and along his widow’s peak. She brushed against his forehead, in the spot where her brand would be. Such glorious wounds. She would make him perfect in the Maker’s eyes.

He flinched away from her touch. “Knight-Commander…” He begged, the fear evident in his wild, helpless gaze. “Meredith, please.”

She pulled her hand away as though she had been burned. “‘It is not fair to wish to taste only of my honey, and not of the gall.’” She quoted as her Templars descended upon the screaming mage like a pack of ravenous wolves. “'If you wish to be perfectly united with me, contemplate deeply the mockery, insults, whippings, death and torments I endured for you.’ - The Canticle of Trials, 7:19.”

She would burn the evil from him with fire and pain so that one day he might rejoin the Maker at his side.

* * *

The Tranquil walked as though they were in a dream. They floated through the halls, like ghosts who did not realize they were already dead. The former First Enchanter cradled in his arms a basket of laundry as he moved through the Gallows. Orsino had spent the entire morning scrubbing the Templars’ white, linen smallcloathes until not a single speck of dirt remained. He did whatever the Templars required of him, serviced them in any way they desired. It was good to be made productive; before he had only been an unused tool, a waste. He knew this because this is what they told him.

The other mages averted their eyes and scurried about like frightened mice. They no longer spoke to him, except to gently inquire “Are you alright?” and “Do they hurt you?” and “We’re sorry.”

Orsino was not alright and he was not hurt and he was not sorry. He was not anything.

He entered the Knight-Commander’s chamber and set to work placing her things in her wardrobe. He had not noticed the other person in the room. “Orsino,” a voice spoke. He turned to look and saw the Knight-Commander standing before him in a simple red tunic and nothing else, her blonde hair spilling down around her shoulders in waves. She moved towards like a cat stalking its prey.

Meredith came to a stop before him and searched those green eyes. So often she had seen them flashing in anger, only on rare occasions had she seen them soften but only with his mages and never with her, and then in the end there had been nothing but pain and fear. Now… now they were dull, like a doll’s eyes. Pretty and simple.

“What would you have of me?” He inquired.

He was obediant now. Pliant. Salvation can only be found by submitting to the Maker and, oh, Orsino would submit to her. She had saved him, her skin was thrumming with the power and the glory of the Maker! She could feel herself bursting with light. “Remove your robes,” she commanded, her voice tight with excitement. “And lie on the bed.”

He did so without hesitation, striping off the Chantry garments and letting them drop to the floor, baring his pale flesh to her hungry gaze. He laid down and Meredith followed after him, crawling over him to settle astride his waist. She traced her fingers along the Maker’s symbol that had been burned into his forehead. This time he did not pull away from her touch. She stroked lower, along his neck and collarbone and chest, and farther down below.

Her questing touch halted as she stared down at the markings before her. There were bruises along his hips, in the shape of a man’s hand. They were ugly and lurid against his pale, colorless skin. She pressed down on them, her brow furrowing in confusion at the sight. They told a story of someone grabbing him roughly, pulling him from behind. She glanced up and looked into his eyes. She saw…

Nothing. Empty.

Meredith stumbled away from him, picking up his clothing and hurling it at the man. “Get dressed and get out,” she demanded, her voice high and wild. “Now!”

“As you wish, Knight-Commander,” he said calmly and obeyed.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, Meredith flung herself at her sword. Crawling on her knees toward the window with the blade in her hands, she looked up at the sun. She raised her weapon, her hands shaking with… with something. Not with weakness. Not with doubt. The lyrium flowed through her, filling her with light and love. “Maker, that which I do,” she prayed, choking on her words. “I do only for you! May I find you after I have completed it!”


End file.
